


The Riddle of the Bleached-Blond Boyfriend

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Baked Goods, Dark Past, Dramatic Revelations, F/M, M/M, Making Out, Missing Persons, Name Changes, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Mart has a new friend. Trixie disappears. Jupiter makes deductions. And "Ben"? Knows more than he's telling....





	1. Biscotti and Irony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taryn/gifts), [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



The lemon trees at Belden Acres are producing well; Trixie has gone into the kitchen this morning planning to make lemon-poppy seed bread as a treat for breakfast. The shower is going--the dome’s bathroom is right next to the kitchen--she can hear it through the adjoining wall. Mart will be happy not to have to fix his own meal.

The sound of running water stops. Then the nearby bathroom door opens, emitting a cloud of steam and a naked man walks out, drying his hair with a towel. She’s never seen him before in her life.

Trixie grabs the knife she used to slice the lemons with. “Hey!”

“What the hell?” He stands there staring at her, belatedly draping the towel over his crotch. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Trixie retorts. “Who the hell are you?”

“You live here?” the stranger repeats. “Daddy-o didn’t say anything about a lady in the picture.”

Several things stand out about his appearance. The first is his height--he’s at least as tall as Jupiter-- which, combined with his extreme slenderness, makes him look like a giraffe with a really bad bleach job. It couldn’t be more obvious that he isn’t a natural blond. At second glance, he’s alarmingly young: her appalled thought is, _Uh-oh, jailbait_.

Presumably, her idiot brother brought this character home for fun and games and now she’s stuck dealing with him. Unless he’s a random serial killer who wandered in because the front door isn’t locked at all, but Trixie prefers not to consider that unless she has to.

“You want to put the knife down, huh?”

“I still don’t have an answer,” she responds, glaring at him. “Who are you?”

He’s eyeing the paring knife and says, “Ben?” as if it’s a trick question.

Well, it’s a start. “How about you go put some clothes on, Ben?”

She expects him to go up to the loft where Mart’s bedroom is, but instead, he wanders over to the living room and begins collecting articles of clothing that have been strewn around the couch. It’s easy to imagine him and her brother making out on the sofa and eventually ending up upstairs. At least, she hopes that’s where they ended up--that couch is nearly new.

Ben slides into his jeans on the spot. They’re tight and black, and he’s going commando, which is really more than Trixie needs or wants to know. He tops that off with a Ziggy Stardust tee shirt. “Better?” he asks sarcastically.

“It’s a start.” Her phone is on the counter, and she quickly pulls up a photo of Mart. “Recognize him?”

“Yeah. Daddy-o.” Ben grins. “We met on the beach yesterday, and we hit it off. Plus, I needed a job, and had said he needed help on his…farm.”

Trixie’s brain hurts. It’s too early in the morning for this. “And he told you to call him Daddy-o?”

“Well,” Ben says coyly, “He didn’t like it when I called him Daddy.”

Oh god. Trixie’s already had a genteel cup of tea in her room, but it seems stronger measures are called for. At nineteen, Trixie is too young to buy alcohol, and Mart is just eleven months older, so coffee it is. And this _kid_ , Ben…what was Mart thinking?

She starts a pot of coffee. “Have you ever worked on a farm before?”

“No, but it’s just picking fruit--how hard can it be?” Oh boy, is he in for a rude awakening!

Trixie returns to her lemon-poppy seed bread. She’s starting to understand why her mother likes to bake in times of tension. Mart refers to it as “procrastibaking”…Daddy-o? Since when has her geeky, farmer-wannabe brother gotten hip? His birthday is coming up. Maybe she should get him a fedora….

“What are you doing?” Ben wants to know.

“I’m making lemon-poppy seed bread.”

“Without a mix? I never saw anybody bake without a mix before.” He promptly seats himself on one of the stools by the counter and watches her intently. “It’s just like one of those TV baking shows!”

Along with clothes and mementos, Trixie’s mom had sent along a recipe box containing index cards with family favorites. Trixie has been refining this particular recipe; she’s had her mom’s version lots of times, but until now, she’s never had it with lemons freshly picked from their own trees. 

Ben asks questions, but in hushed tones, like he’s afraid he’ll disturb her concentration; she’s never seen anyone so eager and helpful in the kitchen before. He’s happy to grease the baking pan for her, and he cleans up behind her as she goes along without being told. Still, she reminds herself, she doesn’t really know anything about him.

Mart swoops in just after the pans have gone into the pre-heated oven. He has an armful of Sunday papers and assorted goodies from the local deli. “Who wants biscotti?!” he hails them jovially.

“ _She’s_ making lemon-poppy seed bread!” Ben announces in tones of glee. Trixie has given him the bowl and spoon to scrape, after making him solemnly swear that she won’t be held responsible if the trace amounts of raw eggs make him sick. He’s enjoying it enormously. She tries not to watch as he licks the spoon with pornographic levels of intimacy.

“I see you’ve met. Sorry I wasn’t here for proper introductions, I ran out for the papers and got a little side-tracked. Trixie, Ben. Ben, Trixie.” 

Mart is trying to be winsome, but Trixie’s having none of it. “I’d like a word with you, Mart.” Over her shoulder to Ben, she says, “Leave the oven _alone_.”

“What’s up, Trixie?” her brother asks once they’re outside.

“Are you out of your mind, bringing home some god-knows-who jailbait on the spur of the moment and then leaving him here unsupervised while you go out for biscotti and whatever? I mean seriously, Mart, that’s incredibly irresponsible--what were you thinking?”

Her brother regards her for a moment. “First of all, I checked his driver’s license. He’s older than I am, ergo, not jailbait. Second, I can’t work this whole place single-handed. I need help, and he needs a job and a place to stay. Third, who I get together with is absolutely none of your business. In conclusion, I’d like to point out that I am, in fact, the owner of this place, which gives me the ultimate say-so as to who stays here.”

“Wait a minute, is this your version of ‘You’re living under my roof, you’ll do it my way.’?” Trixie stares at him in disbelief.

Mart considers this. “No, it’s more along the lines of, this is my roof and I can do what I want. And for that matter, I’ll do _who_ I want, as long as they’re up for it, too. I’ve traveled three thousand miles to be able to own my sexuality, that’s not up for negotiation.”

“Tell me you’re going to do a background check.”

“Look, Trixie, I talked to the guy for a couple hours before we drove out here. I know he looks like what Dad would call a ‘punk’, but he isn’t. He’s had a good education, I can carry on a conversation without him looking at me like my vocabulary is over his head--”

“Like me?” She tries to keep the hurt from her voice, but nobody knows her like Mart.

“Ah, no--that’s not what I meant, kiddo.” He’s contrite. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I just…I’m lonely, that’s all. I love you to pieces, sis, but I don’t want to…um…cuddle with you at night, if you know what I mean.

“Ben’s a good guy. It sounds to me like he had a really rotten time growing up. He told me about some of it--his parents separated and there was a nasty custody fight. Not because either of them was concerned about him, but because neither one wanted to give him to the other. Then, when he was eighteen, his mom remarried and moved away, and his dad disowned him when he came out. All he wants is for someone to give a damn about him.”

Clearly, he’d had a much different childhood from theirs on Crabapple Farm. She recalls his astonishment at her simple act of baking. Probably he’s never gotten to lick batter off a spoon before, poor guy. She bites her lower lip. “That is sad,” she allows. “I guess it would be good for him to see what normal family life is like.”

“Right, normal is good--but let’s keep him here with us, anyway.” Mart responds. 

Trixie blinks at his irony. He definitely needs a fedora.

...


	2. Going, Gone?

It’s nice to have an actual boyfriend, Mart thinks lazily. Back in Sleepyside, he’d never quite dared to come out…there’d been that one guy, that one time…but he’d waited until he got to college, a whole continent away from parental censure, to begin serious investigation of his preferences.

Right now, it’s a comfy Sunday afternoon. He and Ben are lounging at right-angles to each other on the big sectional sofa (courtesy of Jones Salvage Yard--one of Jupiter’s dome-warming gifts). Mart is settled back onto the chaise with his feet up, while long-legged Ben is stretched out on the sofa, bottle-blond head pillowed on Mart’s left thigh. The domestic tranquility is delicious, not in the least disturbed by the screeching tires and crash-bang-booms coming from the television.

Trixie is concerned that Ben’s some kind of miscreant. Mart knows better than to try to argue with his stubborn sister, but he doesn’t think the guy has it in him. Of course, Mart has the benefit of yesterday afternoon, of hours of talking to his new partner before driving out to Belden Farms. A thief? A killer? Not the guy who’d spoken so sorrowfully about his absentee father, his demanding mother or the imperious grandmother he’d spent most summers with. 

Last night, Ben’s gentleness had been a revelation. No, Mart can’t believe that someone who can be so tender may have evil intent. He glances down at the other man, whose attention is on the flat-screen. A little bit David Bowie, with the dramatic angles and planes of his face, a little bit young Johnny Depp with his honey-colored skin and velvety brown eyes. So pretty….

Back at that little cafe in Rocky Beach, he’d asked to see Ben’s driver’s license, because he looks awfully young--he’s a couple years older than Mart, as it turns out--but Ben hadn’t asked for similar access. When Mart asked, joking, whether he wasn’t concerned that Mart might be a serial killer, Ben’s perfectly logical response that been, “Would you tell me if you were?” Which just goes to show that the guy has some sense…but then he’d said something that broke Mart: “If you _are_ a serial killer, would you do something for me? Leave my body somewhere beautiful, like the woods or the beach or a garden…not someplace ugly like a dumpster. Please?”

He sounded resigned to his fate, as if it didn’t particularly matter if he lived or died. His family caused that, Mart diagnoses. It hurts to think that this gorgeous boy--it’s difficult not to think of him that way, even knowing his true age--cares so little about himself.

“I’m going now!” Trixie calls from the door to her room off the kitchen. “I’ll see you later. Is there anything I need to pick up while I’m in town?”

Going? Oh, right--that indie film thing she’s meeting Jupiter for. Meaning he and Ben will have the dome to themselves for a few hours, won’t that be delightful? ”If I think of anything, I’ll text you. Have fun!”

“Drive safe!” Ben chimes in.

A moment later, the _blatt-chug-chug-chug_ of Trixie’s Bug starting up is followed by _pop-pop-pop_ as it rumbles down the lane toward the road.

“Your sister is nice,” remarks Ben.

“Best one I’ve got,” Mart agrees, tracing the line of his jaw.

“I thought she was the only one you’ve got?”

“She is, but I got lucky--Trixie is pretty good, as sisters go. She isn't high-maintenance and she pulls her weight.”

“Does she bake a lot?” 

Oho! Apparently Ben has a sweet tooth--he’d been wildly appreciative of the lemon-poppy seed cake Trixie whipped up this morning. What the heck, if it makes his partner happy, Mart will encourage his sister’s culinary endeavors--he’ll tie an apron on himself, if need be!

“Mostly it’s just everyday cooking,” he has to admit, “but she has more time on weekends.” He combs his fingers through Ben’s white-blonde pixie-cut hair. 

“Does she ever make carrot cake?” Ben wants to know. “That’s my absolute favorite! With that tangy frosting…and little chunks of, what, walnuts?”

“Our mom made carrot cake,” Mart muses. “I’m sure she could send her the recipe, if she hasn’t already.” Ben looks delighted by the prospect, which lends credence to Mart’s theory that he’s starved for family and domesticity. Witness him wanting to call his partner ‘Daddy’…which is kind of disturbing, but make it ‘Daddy-o’ and Mart is willing to play along. He likes jazz.

Mart hits ‘Mute’ on the remote when commercials come on, and somehow, the movie is tabled in favor of a trip upstairs to the master bedroom. Part of it is wanting to keep the furniture in decent shape, the rest of it is, that’s where the essentials (condoms and lube) are.

Warm air rises. The upper level of the dome is cozy. It’s quiet, and perfect for kissing and cuddling and exploring each other--they’ve only begun to catalog each other’s favorite places to be touched.

A fan, Mart thinks drowsily, much later. There’s probably no way to hang one from the ceiling, but maybe mount a couple on the edge of the bedroom wall that’s open above the common area? In summer, it’s going to be like an oven up here…better get some convection going…. 

Ben is half-asleep, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. His spiky hair contrasts with the violet bedding. He looks content. This is one of those sweet moments that Mart hopes he’ll remember forever. Then the sound of ‘Take Five’ emanates from the tangle of clothing on the floor.

“That’s got to be yours, Daddy-o” Ben murmurs. “My ringer is off.”

It’s tempting to let it ring, to ignore it, to stay here snug and happy--but it could be his folks, and since the farm is being subsidized by them, he needs to stay in touch. He rolls to the edge of the bed and snags his pants. He extracts his phone. The caller ID reads, _Jupiter Jones_.

Jupe gets right to the point. “Is Trixie there?”

Mart’s stomach plummets. His good mood of a moment ago is gone, just that fast. “No, she left about an hour and a half ago.”

“Damn,” Jupe says. “I don’t mind missing the film, but I’m worried about her. I’ve tried her phone--it keeps going direct to voicemail.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Mart wants to convince himself. “Car trouble, ran out of gas, got lost trying a new shortcut--look, how about I drive over there and see if I see her car along the way?”

“I can’t sit here and wait. I’ll start on this end of Range Road and we’ll meet up in the middle.”

“What’s wrong?” Ben demands as Mart hauls himself out of bed and starts getting dressed.

“Trixie never showed up for her date, and her boyfriend is worried. I’m going to take the road she would’ve taken and see if I can spot her.”

Ben hops up. “I’m going with you!” he declares. “I like Trixie!”

Mart pauses just long enough to write two notes, one for the front door, one for the outer door of Trixie’s room so she’ll see one no matter which way she enters the dome: _Emergency! Text me as soon as you get this!_. 

Up Route 19, west at the crossroads…onto Range Road, which is four lanes wide. It gets a fair amount of traffic, although with today being Sunday, it’s pretty quiet. They’ve gone less than two miles down Range Road when Mart sees the familiar sky blue Bug parked on the shoulder. He pulls up behind it.

It’s just sitting there. The hood isn’t up, the tires are all inflated…more importantly, there’s no sign of Trixie. 

When his sister first got the car, Mart had insisted that she give him a copy of the key. He’d been thinking more of the likelihood that she’d lock her keys in it at some point, not this--but now he’s really thankful for his foresight as he unlocks the driver’s side door.

“The door was locked,” he points out to Ben. “The key isn’t in the ignition, and her purse is gone.”

“So’s her phone,” Ben observes. 

Mart slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting it for his longer legs. He puts his key in the ignition, taps the gas twice, and turns it. The vehicle obediently starts up on the first try, and there’s over three-quarters of a tank of gas showing on the gauge.

Not car trouble. So why would Trixie leave her car and go…where?

An old work truck passes their position and makes a U-turn. Great, Jupe’s here. He’s got detective impulses, let him detect Trixie’s whereabouts. Mart clambers out of the car and turns to see Jupe walking forward and scowling. Still, he’s relieved, right up to the point where Jupiter looks at Ben and coldly says, “Norris.”

“Jones.” Ben isn’t looking at either of them.

Oh god, suddenly there’s so much tension it’s like another member of the expedition. They know each other? And not in a good way, from Jupe’s tone. Please don’t let his sister’s boyfriend be Ben’s ex, or something hideously awkward like that. 

“Nothing?” Jupiter asks him, ignoring Ben completely.

“No keys, no phone, no purse--no Trixie. The car started right up and it has plenty of gas.”

“Hmm.” Jupiter turns and walks away--not toward Mart’s car or his own vehicle, parked behind it, but in front of Trixie’s car, studying the ground. “Look--there was another car parked here. And those look like Trixie’s sneaker prints…what’s that?”

Ben has picked up a handful of cloth and is sniffing it. “It’s an old, wet tee shirt,” he says. “It smells like seawater to me.”

Jupiter holds out his hand, and Ben hands over the item without a word. “You’re right, it does smell briny…but that--” He indicates an ominous dark streak on the fabric. ”That looks like blood.”

Mart thinks he’s going to be sick. He leans against the side of the Bug, trying not to panic, because what if something really bad has happened to Trixie? How is he going to tell their folks? 

“I don’t care what you two have going on,” Mart says with all the control he can muster. “Whatever it is isn’t as important as getting my sister back. What are we going to do?”

Sometimes the Universe answers questions without fooling around. A police car is coming the other way toward them. It pulls over onto the far shoulder and parks.

...


	3. Naming Names

_Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world_ , Jupiter mentally quotes. He hasn’t seen his old nemesis ‘Skinny’ Norris in…what, five years? And he hasn’t missed the guy at all--but here he is, peroxide blond and evidently hooked up with Mart Belden. Of all the times for him to resurface! Jupe is worried about Trixie; he doesn’t have time for any shenanigans Norris may be cooking up.

Trixie is reliable; for her to not show up for something and not call or text--well, that’s not a good sign. The apparently abandoned car is another proof of something wrong and that wet shirt that Norris has found….Jupiter tries to tell himself that the rag could be completely unrelated to Trixie’s disappearance, but it’s a warm afternoon with low humidity--if it had been here for any length of time, it wouldn’t still be wet. 

If there’s one thing Jupe has learned, it’s that there are some times when being an amateur detective, even a good one, is no substitute for the resources the real police have. He’s a fan of law enforcement, when done correctly, and he’s never been so happy to see a cop car in his life. He’s even happier when one of the officers opens the back door of the cruiser, and out pops Trixie!

It’s fortunate that Range Road is virtually deserted late on a Sunday afternoon, because the joyful reunion that takes place in the middle of it might otherwise result in fatalities. 

“I died a thousand deaths!” Mart says as he hugs his sister. “You scared the hell out of me!” His diatribe continues until Trixie finally squirms free and turns to Jupiter.

“I’m sorry I missed our date,” she tells him contritely. 

“You’ve got blood on you.” Jupiter tries to temper his intense concern, but it’s true. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not my blood--”

“Folks,” says one of the officers, “I understand you wanting to get caught up, but this really isn’t the best place for it.”

“He’s right,” Trixie agrees. “Let’s go back to the farm--I need to get out of these icky clothes, and then I’ll tell all. Of course I’m okay to drive!” she tells Mart. “I’m fine! Nothing happened!”

They all do U-turns and go back down Range Road. Trixie goes first, followed by Mart and Norris in the old hearse, and Jupe flanking the convoy in the truck.

Trixie doesn’t seem to be unduly upset; if she’d been the victim of a crime, the cops probably wouldn’t have been so casual. They’ve already established that her car is mechanically sound, and there was no sign of damage, either. Jupiter plays with the pieces of the puzzle that he knows of. Another car was parked ahead of hers. Trixie is definitely the kind of woman who’d stop to help a stranded motorist. Going so far as to leave her own car to drive theirs? A reasonable assumption. Adding to that the wet tee shirt….

A little while later, they’re sitting around the big round dining table, with slices of lemon cake Trixie baked earlier. She’s freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, and Jupiter ventures the first question, “Was it a boy or a girl?”

She laughs, then leans over and kisses his cheek. “A little girl. They’re going to name her Beatriz, can you believe it?”

“Hang on!” Mart objects. “How did you come up with that?”

Jupe explains his reasoning, concluding with, “…and that tee shirt--amniotic fluid is basically salt water or brine--”

“No wonder babies come out all wrinkly--they’ve been pickled for nine months!” exclaims Norris, who blushes when they all laugh. Even Jupe chuckles at the whimsy. Mart reaches over and tousles that weird blond hair of his. Talk about odd couples!

“Why the hell didn’t you let anybody know where you were?” her brother asks.

Trixie is chagrined. “I was going to, but my phone’s battery was dead,” she admits.

“I know what you’re getting for _your_ birthday,” Mart pronounces with a gimlet-eyed glare. “A battery-powered phone charger for your purse!”

“You could have called from the hospital,” Jupe suggests.

“How? My phone was dead.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ve got phones there.”

“Well, yeah, I guess so, but I haven’t memorized any phone numbers for years. What was I supposed to do, call Moms and Dad and say ‘Hey, let Mart know I’ve been busy delivering a baby’?”

“That’s one possibility. Or you could have gotten the number of the salvage yard from directory assistance. It would’ve been a local call.”

“I didn’t think of it in all the excitement.” Trixie puts down her fork., “We barely made it to the hospital--Angela had the baby right there in the emergency room--they were so short-handed that the resident handed _me_ the baby after she was born--that’s where all the blood came from. . And her husband Luis was having an asthma attack, but he wouldn’t leave them, so he was on oxygen--I’m so sorry I worried you guys--I didn’t mean to, it seemed like everything happened all at once.”

“Beatriz is a pretty name,” Norris contributes.

“I like it better than Bea _trix_ ,” Trixie agrees. “I got teased a lot about that stupid cereal rabbit while I was growing up.”

“It was that or the princess,” Mart grins, “and you’re definitely _not_ the princess type!”

Trixie rolls her eyes. "That's Bea _trice_ " she corrects him.

Jupiter has seen her dressed formally, and it doesn’t take much to elevate Trixie from cute to classy. “The princess and the rabbit,” he remarks. “It sounds like a fairy tale.”

There’s a quiet moment of cake and Jupiter is feeling relaxed when Norris says, “Um, Jones--I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Mart asks, suspicion in his tone. “What’s going on between you two, anyway?”

“Look, when we were kids…” Norris looks abashed. “I was an asshole, I know. There was all kinds of drama going on at home, and I acted out a lot. I couldn’t stand it that you were smart and popular and you’d been on TV.”

For an instant, Jupe feels like a man discovering that the bottom step is missing. Reality lurches. “What? You had friends--”

“I had synchphants, a bunch of guys who were happy to hang out with me because I had a car and my own bank card--I could buy everybody lunch and never asked for gas money. They all disappeared when my dad took the car away.” His shoulders are hunched forward and his chin is tipped down…he looks the picture of misery, and it’s not what Jupe is used to from him. “Anyway, I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you and your crew, I really am.”

“Ah, that was a long time ago,” Jupiter says magnanimously. “I’m willing to make a fresh start.” He extends his hand, and Norris cautiously takes it. His hand is long and slender, like the rest of him, and his handshake is a light squeeze.

“Great!” Mart exclaims. “I was worried that you two used to be an item or something.”

“Worry no more,” Jupe says dryly.

“I’m glad you and Ben are going to get along, since it looks like he’s going to be here for a while,” Trixie is going back for another slice of lemon cake. “helping Mart outside and me in the kitchen.

“Ben? Since when are you ‘Ben’, Norris?”

His former adversay looks as if he’d like to disappear, but Mart rests a hand on his shoulder and says, “Tell them. No one is going to make fun of you, certainly not _Beatrix_ or _Jupiter_.”

Norris fumbles out his wallet and hands his driver’s license to Trixie, who stares at it.

“You’re kidding! That’s downright evil. Who would do that to a kid? Why?”

“It was my grandmother’s idea,” E. Skinner Norris sighs. “In honor of her uncle, who was dirty rotten filthy stinking rich.”

“Did it work?”

“There’s a trust fund, but I won’t be able to touch it for another five years. Uncle thought it would build character if I didn’t get it until I turn twenty-eight.”

Trixie hands the little rectange of plastic to him, and Jupiter glances at the picture, which doesn’t feature the bottle-blond hair. Then he focuses on the name, and whistles. Yeah, that would be enough to make a guy turn to the dark side, right there. Who the heck in this day and age names their son Ebenezer?!

 

…


End file.
